Wuthering High
by dumbledearme
Summary: What if our favorite characters had to coexist inside a boarding school in the middle of nowhere? What happens when Emma Woodhouse, Margaret Hale, John Thornton, Juliet Capulet, Mina Murray, Jay Gatsby, Anne Elliot, Cathy Earnshaw, Frankenstein, Jane Eyre, Anna Karenina, Heathcliff, Hester Prynne, Tess D'Urbervilles, Dorian Gray, Lolita, Madame Bovary, Valjean and others meet?
1. George

**I've been working on this for the longest time. I've posted a few times already, but I always end up deleting everything and starting again. I don't know what's wrong with me... I just never think it's good enough. I want this to be so perfect. It's all of my favorite characters in one story, it has to be perfect, right? I do so hope you guys like this. Please, tell me if you do.**

 **I don't own any of the characters, I have no rights over their stories and I don't intend to gain anything from this.**

George Knightley was trapped in the memories of his father. They had been very close, they had done everything together. And he had been taken away. He was killed, murdered. It had been so sudden, so unfair. A man that was so kind and loving and good had been taken mercilessly from his family because of another man, one that was nothing like him, bad, perverse, evil.

Iris, his little sister, came rushing into his lap. She was a small little thing, barely with any weight, but her arms around his neck held him with efficient strength. Her smiles were sweet, her eyes innocent. She was so much like dad. She had no idea. "What are you doing, Georgie?"

"Thinking about dad," he said. He could never lie to her. Not even when the truth was so painful, so raw, not made for the ears of a little girl. He would not lie to her. That was not his way.

"I think about him, too," she admitted in a small voice. "You look like him, you know?" George smiled. He had just been thinking the same thing but about her. Could she have known? "I watch you sleep sometimes," she added shyly, as if afraid of his reaction.

"Really?" he kept the smiled on his face. "What do you do that for?"

Iris lowered her head and let the sadness in. George could almost see her shrinking in his lap, getting inside herself, closing like and oyster, her pearls lost forever. "It's like dad came back and is sleeping." Her voice was heavy, hurt, and brought tears to George's eyes. But he held them in, for her.

"He's not coming back, Iris."

Her breathing was heavy and superficial. She looked lost inside herself, a feeling George understood all too well. "I know... I just miss him, that's all."

"I miss him, too. But it's been a long time and..." No, he would not lie. Not about this. Not to Iris. Not George. "Well, he's dead, Iris. He is never coming back to us."

She jerked her head violently. Her eyes wet and the innocent gone. All she had left was anger and the need to understand. "Why? Why does he have to be dead? Why did he leave, George? Is he tired of playing with us? Why did he leave us?"

George shook his head and tried to explain the truth to his little sister. The unfairness of the world, the lack of mercy, the evil some were capable of. He tried to make her see that dad would never leave them if he could help it, if it were his choice. Especially Iris, the light of his life, the apple of his eye. And then George stopped, words not being enough anymore.

"Is it because of this bad man that we were left with nothing? That we lost everything...? And dad?"

"Yes."

Iris dried her face with the back of her hand. "Do you know this bad man, Georgie?" she asked lost in thoughts.

"Not yet," he said meaningfully. But oh, he would. And George would make him pay for what he had done.

"Kids," called Mrs Knightley entering the room and kissing each one of her children on the forehead. She didn't noticed - or pretended not to notice - the tears in Iris's eyes or George's anger.

"Mom," he greeted. "How was it?"

Her face fell. She seemed ready to avoid the subject, but George insisted. "Good," she lied. Mrs Knightley was always lying to her children when she felt like she needed, when she wanted to protect them from the truth. George could understand, but he didn't appreciate it. "I sold the house," she confessed under the looks George was giving her.

"Great," he said miserably. Now they could pay the debts Mr Knigthley's death left them. The debts that horrible man had imposed on them.

Mrs Knightley sat on the bed between them. She closed her eyes, grimaced and then started crying. Immediately, George tried to comfort her. Iris embraced her and Mrs Knigthley sobbed. "It's just- this house," she said. "All of our good memories are here. And your f-father... all of his dreams. And I just can't believe we had to sell almost everything, George! It isn't fair!"

All logic seemed to have left her. Her maternal instinct that so often told her to lie to them, not to let them see the pain she was in. She wasn't trying to protect them anymore. She cried and sobbed in their arms. She allowed the to see her weakness, her humanity. And that made her even more of a mother in their eyes. George was seeing now behind that armor she wore and he loved her more. In this room, were the two only people that understood him completely. They knew. They felt it too.

"I will sell the byke," he told her. He was crying now. It didn't matter.

Mrs Knightley faced him. "No, you won't. You can't. It was a gift from your father. And with the money from the house... I can pay for everything. Keep your motorcycle, George. I beg of you."

"I want to help you," he insisted. "Before I leave."

Mrs Knightley pushed him away. She had stopped crying, her face hardening. "You insist on this. George, I cannot pay for that school. I don't want you to go."

"I can get a scholarship," he said with a certainty he did not possess. He wasn't certain of anything anymore, except of his need for retaliation.

"I don't want you to go," she said again. "It's dangerous out there—"

"We've discussed this, mom," he cut her.

"Yes, we did. And I said no."

"Please, don't argue with me in this. Not about this. I need to go. I won't rest if I don't go. Understand, mom. I need you to understand." Once more, the words left him hanging so George kept on repeating that tiny, meaningless prayer, "Understand, please, understand."

"Your father wouldn't want you to go," she said pleading. "I'm sure of that." George kept saying his prayer. "I see there's nothing I can say to make you stay?" George shook his head. He could see she was giving in. Suddenly, Mrs Knightley pulled her son close and held him above her heart from where George begged for forgiveness. She gave him more than that - her blessing.

"I will miss you, Georgie," said Iris in her sweet, childish voice.

"And I, you, Iris." George kissed her hand. "I will keep you two close to my heart."

Mrs Knightley rocked him like he was still a baby. "Remember what your father used to ask of us. What he always demanded we do."

George nodded, crying. "That we be happy. Yes. I will find my peace there, mom. I will find peace," and he repeated that a thousand times until finally he almost believed it himself.

 **This is just a preview. I have a ton of other characters coming. And I'm taking requests. Now, it's your turn to give me some love.**

 **Oh, and for you that want a little taste of George - think Ezra Miller, how about that? ;D**


	2. Margaret

Margaret Hale could hear her mother's voice coming from the other room. "A little more glitter, don't you think?" she was asking the photographer. Margaret could almost see her, half-naked, in high heels, bringing back the libertine movement, with glitter making her boobs shine.

"You are perfect, Prynne. You need nothing else," said the ass-kissing photographer.

"Oh, there you are, Sibyl, give me that water," Margaret heard her mother say.

"Everything's perfect," Sybil told her. "People are going crazy over you. This is really happening, Hester. The movement is back."

"That's because being the biggest representative of women and other minorities of the country has its perks," babbled the photographer. "And I for once, think that having your daughter in the pictures will triple the selling. This magazine will be incredible. Vote for Prynne!" and he laughed by himself.

"But..." Hester hesitated. "Be careful with Margaret. She is nothing but a child. My precious little pearl."

"I will look after her like she was my own," he guaranteed. Margaret almost puked.

"Good. Otherwise I will have your head on a plate."

"I swear, hon."

"Where is she, Sibyl?"

Margaret thought it was time; time to get as much attention as Hester. She was due some. She was tired of her mother being the center of everything. Margaret was not destined to be just Hester Prynne's daughter. Of course, Hester was the most beautiful woman in the world and Margaret had not gotten her looks. What she did get, was wit and a bad temper that usually took the best of her.

Before Sibyl Vane could answer, Margaret walked into the room wearing a pink robe.

"What happened to your outfit?" asked Hester, smiling at the sight of her only child.

She shrugged. "I gave it to the humble children of the streets."

"What? It was Versace!"

"Well, then your gay friend over there can wear it, because I sure won't. Besides, I found something else for me to wear. My own skin." And with a single fast movement, Margaret took off the robe and showed the expensive lingerie she had found in the dressing room, the one her mother had thought too small. Hester gasped. Margaret made a face. "What? Wrong color?"

"What are you thinking?" shouted Hester, getting to her feet. "Put the robe back on! Margaret! Put on the robe!"

"Mom, please, stop acting like you're crazy. And stop shouting. I thought you were in this fight for peace."

"Go change then!"

"No! I'm wearing this. I'll wear what I please."

"I am your mother. I know what's best-"

"Yes, for you. Here you are half naked and I have to cover every ounce of myself. No, no, no. This will not do. Equality! That's what it says on your election campaign."

"Please, Margaret, go change! I cannot deal with this right now."

"Mom, this is what I'll wear. This or nothing. You choose. I can get naked. I'll be wearing my birthday suit. Okay?"

Hester wiped the sweat from her forehead. Being a mother was harder than being a politician. "Please, for the last time, Margaret, go put something else. You can be on the cover of a magazine dressed like that. It'd be a scandalous! You're a minor."

"A scandal that'll yield us thousands, Prynne," butt in the photographer eying Margaret flatteringly. "Let's try this. It'll be fine. She looks beautiful. You both do."

Margaret positioned herself for the photo shoot and pulled Hester with her.

"Smile, girls," said the photographer.

And they did.

The next day, Hester, Margaret and Sybil were having coffee at the doughnut place they liked when _he_ appeared. Margaret had not seen in many years, but she recognized him at once and had to resist the urge to punch him in the testicles.

He walked up to them, holding hands with his child-lover, eighteen years old Lolita, or Dolores, or whatever he called her. Humbert Hale, or _Humbert Humbert_ as he had been known in his pride days, looked around and set his eyes upon Margaret. "May we join you?" he asked.

"You may not," said Margaret.

"I'm your father," he reminded her, already offended. It was so easy to get him on edge. "You should welcome me."

"A donation of sperm does not make you a father," spat Margaret with disdain.

Hester took a deep breath. "What do you want, Humbert?"

 _Humbert Humbert_ glanced at his lover before answering. "I saw the magazine. I will not allow this, Hester," he said. "I will not let my daughter grow up to be a immoral whore."

Margaret laughed. "Of immoral whores, I see only you."

Humbert's face turned a deep shade of purple. He started to protest, but Hester interrupted him.

"You disappeared after Margaret was born. You never called, you never wrote. You have no rights as a father. None!"

"She has my last name," he insisted. "And you'll do well to remember, Hester, that not a penny has lacked you."

"Your money has never been touched. It's in an account. If you'd like, I'll return it to you immediately. But you will disappear again, Humbert. I will not have you around _my_ daughter."

Margaret's head started to ache. The sight of him disgusted her. She couldn't keep it together. "Leave us alone, old man."

"More respect, Margaret! He is your father," this time, it was Hester who spoke. She seemed out of it, also on edge.

"Humph, if he looks like more like a grandfather is your own fault, not mine. You sure know how to pick 'em."

Lolita almost laughed, proving how truly childish she was.

"You aren't a very good mother," Humbert accused Hester.

Margaret smiled. "Finally, we agreed on something."

"How can you say that to me?" cried Hester, eyeing her daughter with indignation.

"Oh, you need to stop being so damn sensitive, mom. I'm smart. I've learned to survive without you both, so quit worrying. And you," she said, returning her attention to Humbert, "can go back to whatever hole you crawled off with this other daughter of yours."

"I'm his wife," said Lolita, with pride, as if the conversation was somehow about her.

"Gross."

"Alright," said Humbert, exasperated. "I am going back. To Russia. But I have a few conditions that include not seeing my daughter half naked in the cover of a magazine."

"What do you want?" asked Hester, troubled.

"I am the father. And by law I have rights. I can claim Margaret if I want and with those pictures, who's going to want to leave her with you?"

"Don't talk to my mother that way," argued Margaret. "And you can't claim me. I'm not a cow."

But when Margaret glanced at her mother looking for approval, she only found fear. Hester was scared of the old man. "Please, understand, my pearl," she whispered to her daughter. "The pictures... it was a mistake."

"And if we go to court because of it, I'd win," added Humbert. "In your place, Hester, I would just do what I'm asking of you."

"What exactly are you asking?" Margaret eyed him curiously.

"That you have a better education."

"I am very well educated, thank you very much."

Hester turned her back, so they wouldn't see her tears.

"There's a school. I went there when young. It is the best in the country. A boarding school," he said. Margaret choked with her doughnut.

"Are you mentally challenged, old man? No way!"

"You watch your tone, young lady. I am your father."

"Darth Vader said the same thing. It didn't stop him from chopping off Luke's hand, now, did it?

"Honey-"

"It's Margaret for you, loser. I won't let you turn me into a nun."

"It's not a convent, it's a boarding school," he explained like she was the retarded one around there.

"Potato, potato. You can just forget it."

"You're too young. You can't see-"

"I'm too young?" Margaret laughed maniacally. "What about Lolita? I bet she's a little young for a few of the things she does with you."

Humbert sighed, seeming genuinely tired. "You'll see. It's for the best."

Margaret doubted that, she doubted so very much. The matter was finished and she was left with no choice. Hester wasn't arguing; she sat there crying silently as if the battle was completely lost. Margaret cursed the both of them. That was just what she needed.

How could she be the daughter of the two most pathetic people on the planet?


	3. John

John Thornton wanted to have some fun. He and Heath had been going over their heads trying to find new ways of having fun, but the school had been keeping them busy and out of trouble. With the two heads thinking together, they reached the conclusion that the only way to enjoy themselves was to get out there. They hatched a plan and they escaped from school heading directly to Heath's house that would be empty: his father worked as much as John's and Heath didn't have any more family.

Before leaving, John wrote a note for his parents and left in his room so Principal Frankenstein would find it.

"Parents," it said, "I've left. Doesn't matter where. I've gone to enjoy the life you have given me. Worry not, I can take care of myself. I'll call soon, John." That would make his daddy lose his mind. John tried to keep the chuckling to a minimum.

At Heath's, they laughed and played video-games, broke the lock of the cabinet where Heath's dad kept his booze, watched some porn, played video-games, drank almost the entire booze cabinet, laughed, listened to heavy metal, ate sweets and junk food and played more video-games.

Eventually, the school called after them. John took the phone from the maid's hand and gave it to Heath.

"Use a handkerchief, pretend you're your father," he whispered.

Heath didn't seem pleased. "They're not gonna fall for that."

"Yes, they will. They're stupid. Especially Karenina. Just do it, Heath. Talk to the woman."

Heath grinned. He cleaned his throat and took the phone with the handkerchief. "Good morning," he said in a thick voice that wasn't his. John once more had to control his amusement. "My son is not here. No. How is my son not there? What do I pay this school for? What sort of security do you have that you can't even hold two minors inside your borders?"

John clutched his stomach and laughed. Heath kept himself together. "Uhu. I'm sure you will. Goodbye."

"What did they want?" asked John.

"To know whether you or me were here. I guess we're not."

And they laughed more and drank another bottle of whiskey and resumed to wreck the place. John sat down and drank the glass in one sip. His mind was working fast. He remembered yesterday, before Emma Woodhouse took her clothes off in the auditorium, his mother and father came to see him. Not because they missed him or anything like that. No, they came to inform him that they'd be going to Europe instead of California where they would've enjoyed the sun and drank margaritas.

"No," said John angrily. "I have no desire of going to London, not now, mom," he tensed under his father's stare. The Governor was a large man with a thick neck full of veins. Veins that often got more visible when John was present. The Governor's eyes would narrow everytime he glanced at his youngest son.

"You'll get to see your siblings, John, it'll be good," said Mrs Thornton. "It'll be so good." Differently from her husband, Mrs Thornton avoided looking at her son which made clear to John she was lying. She was always trying to avoid fights, always defensive she was.

"Mom, you said we were going to the beach. That's what I want to do."

"There was a change of plans, John," explained the Governor, finally removing the cigar from his lips.

"I promised Heath he could go with us. Didn't I?" John turned to his friend, standing resolute by the side, looking morose and uninterested. His usual self.

"It's fine, John," said Heath. "I can go with my folks. I don't mind."

John was getting real pissed off. "I do mind!" he argued. "It'll be boring."

"Enough," said the Governor, the smoke from his mouth threatening to choke John. "This is not a discussion. You are going with us whether you want to or not. End of."

"The ambassador wants a meeting with your dad. A fantastic opportunity, John dear," added Mrs Thornton.

"Then he can go by himself. No need to disrupt my summer vacations."

Governor Macbeth Thornton was losing his temper. "I came to see you even though I am busy with the election. I will not lose my time with your caprices, John. Understand?" The phone rang and he had to excuse himself to answer. Juliet had chosen that moment to wrap her arms around John's neck. Mrs Thornton pretended not to notice. Completely miserable, John allowed his girlfriend to guide him to the auditorium. He had to make his father pay, somehow.

Back to the present and with a sudden rush of excitement, John turned to Heath and said, "When is your dad coming back?" Heath shrugged. "Do you reckon we could go out?"

Heath got up. "Why not?"

"WIth your dad's car?" Heathcliff's dad had one of those convertibles that never saw the light of day. It was an excellent prospect.

"Not in his car," said Heath crossing his arms.

"Come on, Heath." With a little persuasion from John, Heath could be convinced to almost anything. John had high hopes about that.

They drove like they did anything else: recklessly and without skill. The streets of Mistral passed their windows in a blur. Carelessly they went, faster and faster, no concerns. And then John lost control of the car and hit several outdoor tables before crashing into a restaurant, that by sheer luck was closed at the moment.

John sat at the hospital bed. His parents and the doctor were staring at him. He had not hurt himself, he had not hurt Heath. That was what mattered most. John couldn't see why they were making such a big deal out of everything.

"This can't get out there," the Governor was saying. "The Ambassador can't even suspect. Not before I'm ready to give a statement."

"No problem, Governor Macbeth. We well keep a low profile about this," guaranteed the doctor. "Only very serious nurses have heard about it. They will not talk."

"Good. That's what matters most."

"I thought what mattered most was our son," said Mrs Thornton under her breath. The Governor whether didn't hear her or didn't care. John appreciated his mother's love, but also hated how she shrunk every time his dad looked at her.

"Leave us," said the Governor suddenly. "Alone."

The doctor nodded and walked out of the room. Mrs Thornton glanced at her son who shook his head slightly, begging her to stay, but she turned and left without a word.

"You do everything in your power, John, to destroy me," said his father. "This sort of damage the opposition hasn't managed in a year: you almost did in one day. If people find I cannot control my own son, how will they be persuaded to vote for me to control the city? What do you want, John? End me? If you don't know what to do or what to say, you should look at your brothers who never embarrass me. They are the type of children I can love. You don't care about image. You don't understand how it's the thing that matters most."

"Dad-"

"Shut up. I have no come here to listen to you. I came here to warn you. If in that stupid head of yours you think that because you are my son you can do what you please, you are much mistaken, John. You've gone too far. You could have murdered pedestrians; you've destroyed a car."

"And I will pay for every-"

"You will pay for nothing because you have nothing! I have money, John. I do! You don't. I am going to pay for the damage you've caused. But I tell you, John, that my trust doesn't have a price."

John faced his father. Yep, the veins were there alright. The Governor was breathing like a buffalo. "You've never trusted me anyway," John accused. "All you see in me is bad."

"Because there's no good in you." The Governor reached into his pocket and took a letter out. "I came to give you this."

"What is it?"

"Disciplinary hearing."

John's heart went berserk. _Fuck_. He didn't see that coming. "Who filed a complaint?"

"I did."

John felt his eyes burning. "I see. The exemplar politician hands out his son's head. Greatest sacrifice, isn't it? It'll do wonders for your career."

Governor Macbeth Thornton smiled wickedly. John was filled with hatred.

"The shame is that you have such a great intellect but doesn't know how to use it."

And he walked out of there almost jumping with pleasure, as if he had ridden himself of a great problem. With each step, he seemed to look more relaxed, younger. It was as if the farthest he was from John, the happier he became.


End file.
